


We'll Have Time

by roboticonography



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Inappropriate betting pools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 01:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17234930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: The Howling Commandos have a little bet going about Steve and Peggy. Steve tries to put a stop to it. Peggy and Bucky have a plan. Things go predictably awry.





	We'll Have Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachlovesligers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachlovesligers/gifts).



> For rachlovesligers for the 2018 Steggy Secret Santa.
> 
> Title from When the Lights Go On Again by Vera Lynn.

****“What goes in a French 75?”

“Anti-tank artillery, generally.” Peggy sticks out her tongue and licks the end of her pencil before making a decisive mark in her notebook. It’s a distracting habit she has, one that inevitably makes Steve lose focus. “Why do you ask?” 

“The drink, I meant,” says Steve, sheepishly. “Just thought you might know.” 

“Because I strike you as a committed cocktail drinker?” 

Peggy has the habit of asking what Bucky calls _minefield questions_ : seemingly harmless, possibly fatal, tricky to avoid. 

Steve sidesteps with, “I heard it in a picture.” 

“I should have guessed.” She smiles, taking pity on him. “It’s like a Tom Collins, only you top it with champagne instead of soda.” 

“Never had a Tom Collins either,” he confesses, feeling hopelessly unsophisticated. 

Peggy leans closer, adopting a confidential tone, even though it’s just the two of them alone in the tent. “The next time you’re back at HQ, say that loudly within earshot of Howard Stark. He’s got an entire bar in his desk. He’ll make sure you’re well looked after.” 

Steve suspects that Howard has ulterior motives in making sure Peggy is _well looked after_ , but he keeps that thought to himself. 

“Sounds like a plan.” He doesn’t think he could have thought of anything cornier to say if he’d thought about it for a week. If Peggy didn’t think he was a complete rube before, she probably does now. 

“What was the picture?” 

“Huh? Oh. _Casablanca_.” 

“And how many times did you see that one?” 

“Only twice,” says Steve, feeling the back of his neck get hot. Not because he’s embarrassed, but because she clearly knows him well, and likes him well enough to give him the gears, and he really ought to do something about it. 

He’s mulling over ways to suggest that maybe the two of them could further his drinks education together sometime, when a voice outside derails his train of thought. “Knock knock!” 

Steve waits; he’s the ranking officer, but it’s Peggy’s office, when all’s said and done. 

She straightens up in her chair, tucking her pencil behind her ear. “Yes?” 

Dugan leans head and shoulders into the tent. 

“What can we help you with, Corporal?” 

“Any word on how much longer this meeting of the minds is gonna run?” 

“Don’t wait on me if you fellas are ready to go,” Steve tells him. 

“Roger that.” He tips his hat and withdraws. 

“Don’t let me keep you from an evening out,” says Peggy. “We’re nearly through here. I can piece together the rest of this from your notes.” 

“I don’t mind staying,” says Steve, with absolute sincerity. 

“I insist. It’s not often you get leave, you should have some fun while you’re about it. Besides, if you don’t go, you’ll regret it.” Her American accent, like everything else about her, is flawless. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.” 

He grins. “That was pretty good.” 

She rises from her seat and takes a little bow. 

Steve stands too, albeit reluctantly, and gathers up his things, leaving his notebook behind. He’s glad it’s a new one; the old one had some doodles that would’ve been awkward to explain. 

“Eat, drink and be merry. Peggy’s orders.” 

She gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder—except that, somewhere along the line, it turns from a pat into a squeeze. She’s squeezing his bicep. And giving him a look, one that Steve would describe as… appreciative. 

Her hand is warm, even through the sleeve of his shirt. He feels himself flush, his skin prickling all over. It could be the lantern-light, but he thinks she might be blushing a little too. She’s suddenly very close, very kissable. He starts to lean down. 

A burst of laughter erupts near the back wall of the tent. 

Peggy startles at the sound, pulling her hand away. She blinks up at him, like a sleepwalker waking in a strange place. 

He straightens up, falls back a step. “Peggy’s orders, huh? Can’t argue with that.” 

“Good night, Steve.” Her voice is soft. 

Feeling giddy and reckless, he raises his empty canteen. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” 

He carries the warmth of her laughter with him into the cool, dark night. 

* 

Rounding the corner of the mess tent, Steve can hear a hushed conversation between Dugan and Bucky. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop; still poring over what just happened with Peggy, he simply forgets to tune it out. 

“…nothing. Just gabbin’ about cocktails and pictures.” 

“Told you they wouldn’t be stupid enough to get up to anything in there,” says Bucky. “Phillips could walk in, and he ain’t about to knock.” 

“Shame. I could use the money. You cheating sons of bitches cleaned me out. Come on, let’s go.” 

“Steve isn’t coming?” 

“He said go on without him.” 

“Huh,” says Bucky thoughtfully. “Here’s hoping his luck changes, then.” 

“It’s been pretty good so far,” says Steve. 

Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin. “You big goon! What’d I tell you about sneaking up on a guy like that?” 

Steve cuffs him lightly on the shoulder. “If you fellas are bored enough that you have time to gossip,” he says, pleasantly, “I can find something for you to do tonight. Maybe the kitchen has some pots that need scrubbing.” 

Dugan assures him there was no disrespect intended, and wisely decides to go on ahead and join the rest of their party, leaving Steve to walk with Bucky. 

“What money was Dum-Dum talking about, Buck?” 

“Just griping about getting cheated at poker. Only person who cheated _him_ is whoever taught him how to play.” 

Steve waits. 

“Ohhh, no,” says Bucky quickly. “You can’t threaten to put me on KP and then suddenly we’re pals again. Take a hike, _sir_.” 

“Quit trying to change the subject. What money?” 

“You’re gonna overreact.” 

“Try me.” 

Bucky sighs heavily. “There’s... a pool. And the pot goes to whoever can—catch you and Carter in the act.” 

The question is on the tip of Steve’s tongue— _the act of what?_ —before he clues in. 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but… there’s no act.” 

“The hell you say.” 

“Never even made it to the stage.” 

Bucky peers into Steve’s face; whatever he reads there apparently convinces him. “Well, why not?!” 

“I don’t think she thinks of me that way.” Even as he says it, he recalls the heated look that passed between them, the press of her fingertips on his arm. 

“Steve. Buddy. Of _course_ she thinks of you that way. You’re Captain America. Every red-blooded girl in the free world thinks of you that way. Half of ‘em are probably thinking it right this second.” 

“Oh, sure,” says Steve drolly. “Who doesn’t love a guy in a giant blue tube sock?” 

“I mean it. You can tell by the way she looks at you that she’s itching to ride your star-spangled—” 

Steve swats him hard enough to set him off-balance. “Watch it.” 

Bucky rubs his shoulder, grinning. “I was gonna say ‘motorcycle.’” He retaliates with a shot in the arm that’s clearly supposed to mean business. 

“Ow,” says Steve, unconvincingly. 

“Asshole.” 

“Takes one to know one.” 

Steve is annoyed that he has to know about this. It’s relatively harmless; even a little funny, if you look at it from the right angle. But now that he knows, he can’t just let it slide. He knows how hard Peggy has to fight to be treated with even the bare minimum of respect. He can’t have his guys being the instigators. 

“You’re calling off the bet.” 

“Call it off? Are you fucking kidding me? There’s over a hundred bucks in the pool. We all pay into it every week. No one’s calling anything off.” 

“She’ll paste you in the eye if she finds out.” 

“She ain’t gonna find out. Because no one’s gonna tell her. Right?” 

“Call it off and there won’t be anything for me to tell.” 

Bucky, as usual, doesn’t know when to quit. “You could just take one for the team and say I caught you nailing her.” 

“Hey,” says Steve, warningly. 

“Then I could win the pot and everyone would leave you two alone. And you’d have a shot at nailing her for real.” 

“I’ll nail _you_ if you don’t knock it off.” 

Bucky pats him on the back. “Right attitude. Wrong target.” 

* 

The bar is packed. There’s a USO show in town, and it seems like nearly every guy in camp has decided to try and make time with the chorus girls. Steve doesn’t mind; it’s a rare and welcome thing for Captain America not to be the most noticeable person in a room. 

Bucky and Jones decide to try their luck with the ladies, while the rest of the guys wind up crammed around a corner table. The captain, as usual, buys the first round. 

The conversation is animated, but Steve feels as though he’s used up most of his allotment of words for the day. He sits quietly, paying attention but not really diving in. The greater part of his mind is still on Peggy, and on what might have happened if he’d had the guts to make a move. His trouble is that he never quite spots the opportune moment, until something happens to ruin it. It feels like he’s playing a game of chess where he can’t see half the board. 

Dugan taps him on the arm, jostling him out of his reverie. “Settle something for us, Cap!” he bellows. 

“No more arm wrestling,” Steve shouts back. “You spilled my beer last time.” 

“Not that.” He leans on the rickety table, beckoning Steve closer. “We’re trying to figure out how Carter got that lead in her shoulder.” 

Peggy has her own tent in camp, by virtue of being the only woman there; back in London, aside from the occasional visit to her mother’s, she bunks with the WACs. Living in such close quarters makes it hard to keep secrets, so it isn’t surprising that everyone knows her business. 

Steve takes a sip of his beer, trying to appear casual, then asks, “What makes you think I’d know?” 

Dugan shrugs. “You’ve known her the longest.” 

In fact, Steve had caught a glimpse of the scars once, in his second week of basic: Peggy had given him some after-hours tutoring in the gym, and he’d torn the collar of her t-shirt trying to struggle out of a challenging hold. He’d been mortified, but she’d congratulated him on treating her as a proper opponent. 

He repeats now what Peggy told him at the time: “She said the details were classified.” 

The guys erupt into laughter, all talking over each other at once: 

“She told _me_ it was a training snafu.” 

“Archery lessons as a kid.” 

“Harpoon fishing.” 

“Misfire in Stark’s lab!” 

“She tell me she was wounded in a duel.” Dernier’s moustache has an air of profound disappointment. 

“Only a Frenchie would believe that,” says Dugan. 

“Only anyone who met Carter would believe that,” Morita counters. “I buy that she’d kill a man for looking at her wrong.” 

“As would any true Englishwoman,” says Falsworth. 

“We could always bet on it,” suggests Morita, grinning. 

The other guys around the table glare at him. 

Steve pretends not to notice, telling himself that Bucky will handle it. 

He taps out after two more rounds, and takes the long way back into camp—a route that leads him, conveniently, right past the ops tent. He’s nothing if not a strategist; if the opportune moment fails to present itself, he’s ready to resort to making it happen. 

He arrives to find the tent already dark, no sign of Peggy anywhere. 

Steve, contrary to popular opinion, knows when he’s licked. 

* 

The next HYDRA target is a facility in the Alps, but a nearby ice storm keeps the available troop carriers grounded longer than originally planned. 

Peggy takes full advantage of the extra time to bring Steve up to speed on recent events in the larger playing field. New intel is coming in all the time, and he doesn’t have a lot of time to read dispatches when he’s on the move. 

Phillips is stuck in London because of the storm, so they have the large marquee tent to themselves—or they _would_ , if it weren’t for the Howlies’ constant interruptions. 

Steve isn’t sure if it’s happening more often, or if he’s just now noticing the frequency because he knows about the bet. Either way, someone’s always got a reason to barge in—whether it’s Falsworth wanting to borrow a cigarette, or Dernier claiming to have mislaid a fuse he was working on, or Morita with an unending supply of equipment requisitions. 

It’s chilly in the tent, especially with people coming in and out. The best way to get the full effect of the single gas-powered heater is to make a coordinated quarter-turn every fifteen minutes. After a few hours of this, Steve starts to feel a bit like a Thanksgiving turkey. 

Peggy is bundled up in her coat, her scarf, and her little marksman’s mittens. He wonders if her mother knitted them for her; he’s seen the posters in London, directing civilians to “knit their bit” for the war effort. Steve gets a pair of thick wool socks in the mail just about every week, courtesy of the Captain America Fan Club, though he winds up giving most of them away to the guys. He figures his must be the most well-shod unit in the whole of the U.S. Army. 

“I could use a cup of coffee,” he announces, standing up. He doesn’t really need it, but he knows she’d never agree if he offered to get one just for her. 

“Sugar in mine, please,” she says, regally. “If you’re offering.” 

Steve already knows how Peggy takes her coffee. He also knows her usual drink (whiskey, neat), her favourite chocolates (Fry’s Peppermint Creams), and even her preferred stocking heel (French, but Cuban will do in a pinch). 

Rather than volunteer any of this, he merely nods, confirming that he is in fact offering. 

She flaps her wool-covered hand at him. “Hop to it.” 

When Steve returns ten minutes later, Peggy isn’t alone. Bucky is planted in Steve’s spot, elbows on the table, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. 

Peggy and Bucky have never found much in common to make small talk about, but they seem pretty cosy all of a sudden. Steve wonders whether admitting that he and Peggy are only friends has given Bucky the impression that _he_ might have a shot. 

“Sorry to interrupt?” He’s unable to stop it from coming out as a question. 

“Actually, your timing couldn’t be better,” says Peggy. “Sergeant Barnes has just made me a very interesting proposition.” 

Steve can feel himself turning red for no good reason at all. He sets the steaming tin cup in front of Peggy, who unbuttons her mittens and wraps her fingers around it, flashing him a grateful smile. 

“Where’s mine?” inquires Bucky. 

“Are your legs broken?” Steve shoots back. 

“Captain Rogers,” Peggy interjects, “did you know that some of your squad have organized a betting pool in our honour?” 

Steve manages to speak coherently, despite the fact that he seems to be in very real danger of swallowing his own tongue. “I heard something about it,” he says. 

“Good, that saves us a bit of time. The pot is currently sitting at one hundred and twenty dollars. Barnes has generously offered us both a share—provided, of course, that we let him catch us.” 

Steve has heard of HYDRA attempting to create doppelgängers to supplant key Allied personnel. He can’t help wondering whether the project was more of a success than the reports let on. Because there’s no possible way that it could be _Peggy Carter_ making that suggestion. 

“Catch us?” he echoes. 

“In flagrante, so to speak. I mean, not really. It’ll all be for show. But Barnes will win the money, and he’ll give us each a share, and then you and I can get our work done in peace and Monty can stop nicking all my cigarettes.” 

“Couldn’t we just say he caught us?” 

Bucky shakes his head. “They gave me a handicap, on account of us being friends. I gotta have a witness with me, to be sure it’s all on the up and up.” 

Steve isn’t sure why his friend is suddenly talking like he’s in a gangster movie. Or why both of them are acting like this is a completely normal conversation to have. 

“But Carter’s a pro at all this spy stuff,” Bucky adds. 

The pair exchange a conspiratorial nod, and Steve suppresses a twinge of irrational jealousy. 

“Just so I’m clear,” he says, slowly, “you want the two of us to pretend to—” 

“Kiss,” says Bucky quickly. 

“That’s all?” 

Peggy raises an eyebrow. 

Flustered, Steve tries to backtrack: “Not that… I mean…” 

“That’s all that’s on offer, yes,” says Peggy, smoothly. “Your reputation will be ruined, of course, but I’m sure the money will be a small comfort.” 

Bucky snickers. 

“You’re okay with that?” Steve asks Peggy. 

“Frankly, I think it’s ludicrous, but forty dollars is nothing to sneeze at. And if everyone’s made up their minds anyhow, we may as well capitalize on it.” 

“Forty?” Bucky waves his hand. “No, no. I’m doing all the work here. It’s sixty for me, thirty each for you two.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Peggy is indignant. “Steve and I are the ones assuming the risk in this mad scheme. It’ll be a three-way split, and you’ll count yourself lucky to get that.” 

“It was my idea!” 

“And if you think you can make it work without us, you’re certainly welcome to try.” She folds her arms with an air of finality, and Steve wonders at what point _his_ opinion became tangential to the discussion.

Bucky slouches in his chair. “I’m glad you’re on our side, Carter.” 

The negotiations settled, Peggy and Bucky hash out a plan. 

Most of camp, including the Howlies, will be at the USO show that night. Peggy and Steve will stage a scene in the ops tent, leaving the radio on as a signal that they’re ready to be interrupted. Bucky will find an excuse to drag one of the other guys back early to catch them at the appointed time. 

“Best not make it the top of the hour,” Peggy suggests. “That’s a bit too tidy. We’ll call it quarter to nine, shall we? And if you aren’t there by nine, the deal is off.” 

“I only get fifteen minutes?” 

“I’m not hanging about in a freezing cold tent all evening at your convenience.” 

“I’m sure Steve’ll be happy to keep you warm,” says Bucky, tipping Peggy a rascally wink. 

“Don’t push your luck,” she says sternly. “I should write up the lot of you for unauthorized gambling.” 

Bucky’s grin dims slightly. “I thought you were on the level, Carter.” 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Cagney.” 

Steve snorts into his coffee. 

“The next time you’re bored enough to consider making daft wagers,” she adds, “come and see me, I’ve a lot of typing that needs doing.” 

“You two deserve each other,” Bucky grouses. 

Just then, Jones drops in, ostensibly to borrow a pencil. Dugan follows him in, and they both hang around shooting the breeze until Falsworth turns up. The tent is starting to resemble Grand Central Station. 

“I’m not running a social club, gentlemen,” says Peggy at last, exasperated. “And I’m all out of cigarettes, so unless you have a pressing issue you’d like me to relay to the colonel, you can clear off.” 

Steve gives up and herds everyone outside, himself included. 

* 

Later, he manages to corner Bucky leaving the mess tent. 

“What the hell was that?” he demands. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“I thought you said that someone had to catch us in the act!” 

“No one’s having a whole lot of luck doing that, Steve,” says Bucky, pedantically. “So we lowered the bar. Now even a kiss counts.” 

Steve presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You fellas gotta find a better hobby.” 

“Yeah, after this I’m taking up contract bridge.” 

Steve, stricken with compulsive mentionitis where Peggy is concerned, remarks, “Agent Carter’s a good bridge player.” 

“Oh yeah? Maybe she’ll be my partner.” 

“Yeah, that sounds like a great way to get yourself shot.” 

Bucky shrugs philosophically. “You only live once.” 

* 

Steve cleans up as best he can in his tent before making an appearance in the marquee tent at precisely twenty to nine, as instructed. 

The tent is warmer than usual, thanks to the addition of a second heater. Which is good, because Peggy is wearing the uniform skirt and blouse she normally reserves for office work. Her hair is curled, her seams arrow-straight, and her lipstick vivid—the combined effect of which has Steve’s stomach in knots before he has time to let the door flap fall closed. 

All he says is, “Hi,” but even that sounds strange and unnatural. 

“All right?” she asks. 

“As I’ll ever be.” He shrugs off his overcoat and folds it neatly over the nearest chair. 

Peggy beckons him over. “Let’s have a look at you.” 

Steve steps into her orbit, standing up straight. 

“At ease,” she says, sounding amused. “You’re looking very tidy this evening.” 

“Thanks.” 

“It won’t do, I’m afraid. This isn’t uniform inspection. People are supposed to think we’ve been naughty.” 

She gestures to herself, in a way that’s clearly supposed to mean something, but to Steve she just looks fresh-faced and beautiful. He remembers reading somewhere that women’s service uniforms were intended to be unflattering, but whoever wrote that had clearly never set eyes on Peggy Carter. The simple pencil skirt hugs her curves; the loose collar of the blouse perfectly frames the long line of her neck. He wants to ask her to say _naughty_ one more time. 

“Here, I’ll get you started.” 

She pushes his jacket down off his shoulders, loosens his tie with nimble fingers, crumples his collar roughly. She rakes her fingers through his hair, undoing all his careful combing. His eyes fall closed, and he has to resist the urge to lean into her touch. 

When he opens his eyes again, she’s frowning at him in apparent disapproval. “It’s not enough. It just looks as though you got dressed in the dark.” 

“I get dressed in the dark every morning,” he points out. 

After studying him a moment, she concludes, “I know what’s missing.” 

And then she stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips to the hinge of his jaw. Her breath is hot on his cheek. 

She kisses him again, on the corner of his mouth this time. “That ought to do the trick,” she murmurs. 

“I’ll say.” Steve has completely lost the thread of the conversation. 

“You look a little drunk,” says Peggy. “Sit down.” 

Which is a small mercy, because Steve doesn’t think his legs will hold him up much longer. 

He parks himself in the chair, and Peggy leans over his shoulder and fiddles with the little transistor radio until she finds a program of music. She’s close enough that if he turned his head, his cheek would be against her breast. A bolt of desire drills straight down his spine at the thought. 

“The news comes on at the top of the hour,” she observes. “If Barnes isn’t here by then, we can pop over to the mess to warm up.” 

“Sure.” Steve’s discomfort with the whole scenario is quickly rising. The amount of work Peggy is putting into pretending just highlights the implausibility of ever kissing her for real. 

Which is when she shucks off her jacket and arranges herself across his lap. 

It’s a bit much, so unexpectedly; he shifts positions, trying to settle her high on his knee, to avoid letting her know how much she’s affecting him. The flimsy camp chair squeaks under their combined weight, and he feels it give a little on one side. 

“If you’re going to fidget, hold onto me,” says Peggy, practically. “I don’t fancy being dropped on the floor.” 

When he hesitates, she takes his hand and places it on her hip, then wraps her free arm around his shoulders. His other hand moves automatically to her back to steady her. Through her blouse, he can feel the solid muscles of her shoulder, the strap of her brassiere, the puckered ridges of her twin scars. 

“You never did tell me how you got these.” He taps the spot. 

“Classified, remember?” 

“My clearance has gone up since then.” 

Her smile is faint, enigmatic. “It isn’t a very nice story.” 

“I hear it has harpoon fishing. And a duel.” 

“Those are two of the more inspired versions.” 

“You don’t have to tell me.” 

She looks at him very intently, and Steve is suddenly aware of the fact that he’s gone from trying to balance her on his knee to holding her firmly in his arms. His mouth goes dry. 

Peggy takes a deep breath. “My first assignment for the SOE was as a courier. I had to memorize sets of wireless code and then deliver them to the contacts in my circuit. I was on my way to meet someone in Toulouse, and I had to cross a busy street. Flaming idiot that I was, I looked right instead of left, and nearly got knocked down by a lorry.” 

She recounts it with a blithe, self-deprecating air, and Steve wonders whether there’s a punchline on the horizon. 

“There was a Gestapo officer who happened to be crossing. He saw my mistake, realized I must be English, and tried to arrest me. I panicked and hit him with my bag, and as I ran off, he shot me in the back.” 

“But you got away?” 

She shakes her head. 

“Oh,” says Steve, stupidly. 

“They questioned me for four days before I managed to convince them I didn’t know anything.” 

It’s far from the worst story he’s ever heard, but the fact that it’s _Peggy_ telling it makes his stomach clench up. His brain can’t help but fill in all the details she’s leaving out. 

On the radio, Vera Lynn is cheerfully opining about the lights going on again. He wishes, not for the first time, that they could close their eyes, click their heels, and be transported to that mythical place, the end of the war. 

“Don’t tell anyone,” says Peggy. 

“My lips are sealed,” he assures her—belatedly realizing that he probably couldn’t have found a _worse_ way to say that to someone who just told a story about being interrogated by the SS. “If it—” All of Steve’s better instincts are telling him just to leave it alone, but he pushes on. “If it makes any difference, the guys would still like you—and respect you—just as much if they knew.” 

“I’m sure they would,” she says airily. “But one must maintain a certain air of mystique.” 

He nods. 

“But thank you all the same.” Her fingers are light on the nape of his neck. 

The song on the radio changes, and Steve recognizes the opening notes of As Time Goes By. The folding chair is listing noticeably now, causing Peggy to tuck herself against his chest in an effort to stay upright. 

“You know,” he says, his voice wavering slightly, “you never did tell me what you thought of _Casablanca_.” 

She laughs. 

“What?” 

“You’ve got a real, live girl in your arms, and _still_ all you think about is the pictures!” 

He‘s blushing furiously now. “That’s not all I think about.” 

“No?” 

He opens his mouth to reply, but he’s got nothing more to say, so he does the only thing he can think of: he pulls her in for a kiss. It’s a good one, soft and slick, her mouth open against his, her hand clutching the back of his neck. 

And Steve can’t help but think that she was right about him seeming drunk, because he hasn’t been able to get a decent buzz from whiskey or beer in ages, but he’s half out of his mind on one shot of Peggy Carter. 

A sudden, strident voice makes them startle and break apart—a radio announcer, introducing the news broadcast. 

Peggy leans over and switches the radio off, but makes no move to stand up. Her face is flushed and radiant; his heart feels weightless, floating in the centre of his chest. 

“Alone at last,” he quips. 

“About bloody time,” she says hoarsely, and pulls him back to her. 

It occurs to him, distantly, to wonder where the hell Bucky got to—but the thought is aimless, soon set adrift. His hands and his senses are full of Peggy. 

The kiss is gentler this time, but with more intent: a marathon, rather than a sprint. They kiss for so long that Steve forgets where they are, forgets to be cautious; he runs his hand over her hip and down, tracing the outline of her garter clip through layers of cotton and wool. She takes his hand and guides it further down her leg, then up under the hem of her skirt. He skims his fingertips over nylon, lace, and finally, the impossible silky softness of her bare skin. 

He pulls back to watch her face; he’s thought about this, about touching her this way, an embarrassing number of times. 

Her reaction is better than he could have imagined: her eyes are dark, a blush spreading across her cheeks and down her throat. The rapid rise and fall of her chest is mesmerising. She bites her lip, her fingernails digging into his shoulder. 

He leans in again, lets his lips brush her cheek. Along with her soap, there’s a faint trace of something floral. 

“I think about this all the time,” he whispers, pressing kisses along the sharp line of her jaw. 

“So do I,” she confesses, tilting her head back. She gives a pleased hum when he nuzzles her neck; her hand slides up into his hair, holding him to her. 

His hand is still exploring. His fingers slip under the elastic of her garter clip, his thumb grazing her inner thigh. It’s as far as he dares to go, for now. He squeezes her leg, the muscles tensing. 

“Darling,” she groans, and shudders in his arms—and Steve has never been one for pet names, but the way she says it makes him determined never to let her call him anything else. 

He can smell her perfume more clearly now: he’s charmed by the thought of her, in the midst of all this rough living, dabbing her signature scent behind her ears, on the pulse points of her wrists, and maybe elsewhere. He pictures searching for the other spots, finding new ways to make her tremble and cry out. 

“I’m gonna kiss you all over.” He’s so far gone that he lets it slip without conscious thought, mouthing the words against her collarbone. 

Her moans get louder, higher-pitched, ending in a gasp and a surprised, “Ah!” 

He pulls back. “What’s wrong?” 

She looks at him, glassy-eyed. Her cheeks are rosy. “I…” she starts, abashed. 

Steve may be a virgin, but he’s no neophyte. He’s heard of this, but he never expected to see it first-hand. 

“Really?” he asks, unable to keep from sounding smug. 

“You needn’t look _quite_ so pleased with yourself. You’re an awful tease.” 

He ducks his head, grinning. “Wasn’t trying to be.” 

“Well, it makes a nice change from me throwing myself at you all evening.” 

“Throwing your—?” 

“What in blue blazes is going on in here?!” barks Colonel Phillips from the doorway of the tent. 

Peggy freezes, looking utterly mortified. 

“Uh,” says Steve, eloquently. The scene is damning: with his hand up her skirt, and her lipstick all over his face, it would be a tough sell to call this anything other than what it is. 

Phillips seems to reach the same conclusion. “Never mind,” he grumbles. “I get the general idea. You two have the entire camp to yourselves, and you decide to do your canoodling in _my office_. You’re in ten kinds of trouble, Carter. Rogers, get out.” 

Steve manages to stand without dumping Peggy onto the ground, setting her gently on her feet. He looks at her—hair in disarray, colour high, eyes bright—and wonders how many kinds of trouble they’d both be in if he kissed her goodbye. 

The look Peggy is giving him suggests that she’s having the same thought. 

Phillips claps sharply, breaking the spell. “I said _get!_ ” 

Steve snatches up his coat and bolts outside, making for the trail near the edge of the woods. The air has turned frosty; a few scattered snowflakes are floating slowly down, disappearing the moment they touch the ground. 

Behind him, he can still hear Phillips railing at Peggy, though he seems to be losing steam. 

“Of all the big, dumb goons running around, of course you’d go and pick the biggest, dumbest one. Look at this chair!” There’s the distinct clatter of a boot striking metal. “What do you call that, modern art? Go find me another one. Then go get yourself something to eat.” 

“Sir?” 

“Don’t give me that look. I know you. You’ve been holed up in here, working all day, and now you’re tired and hungry and making eyes at the first bad decision to walk through the door. Here, take your coat, it’s colder’n a witch’s tit in a brass bra out there.” 

A moment later, Peggy wanders out of the marquee tent, slightly bewildered, the mangled folding chair tucked under one arm. She stops when she sees Steve ahead of her on the path. 

“What happened there?” he asks. 

“I’ve no idea. I thought I’d be put on jankers, but all I’ve got to do is replace this.” 

“I’ll trade you for the one in my tent,” he tells her, taking the chair. “It’s the least I can do.” 

Peggy’s smile is luminous. “An officer and a gentleman.” She glances up and down the path for observers before snagging him by the tie and reeling him in. 

Mindful of the cold, he opens his coat, wrapping it around them both. She snuggles up to him, sliding her arms around his waist, and Steve kisses her, feeling like the luckiest man alive. 

Which is, of course, the exact moment when all of the Howling Commandos, minus Bucky, come crashing through the underbrush, spilling out onto the path a few feet ahead of them. 

“…the last time I trust one of your so-called shortcuts…” Falsworth trails off, his mouth hanging open. There’s a distinct waft of alcohol that would be apparent even without an enhanced sense of smell. 

Dugan crashes into Falsworth, causing a bit of a pileup behind them. “Well, hello there, lovebirds!” he crows, training his flashlight on the pair. 

Steve squints into the bright light, keeping his arm firmly around Peggy. There isn’t much to do at this point but brazen it out. 

There’s a wolf whistle from somewhere in the group, and then Morita calls out, “When’s the wedding?” 

“Why?” asks Peggy tartly. “Are you taking bets on what month it will be?” 

For once, no one has a clever comeback. 

Steve takes advantage of the quiet to add, “Any more comments’ll cost you KP duty, fellas. Move along.” 

There’s a bit of generalized grumbling, which Steve elects not to count as commentary, but everyone wishes them a relatively polite goodnight and heads off. Once they think they’re out of earshot, Steve can hear Dugan and Morita starting to argue about how to split the pool. 

Peggy buries her face in Steve’s chest and gives a dramatic, full-body sigh. 

He holds her close, watching their mingled breaths rise in the air. It’s so quiet he can hear the snow falling all around them. He thinks of that Vera Lynn song: _And rain or snow is all that may fall from the skies above…_ Just now the end of the war seems closer, more attainable than ever. 

“Shall we call my mother?” asks Peggy balefully, the words muffled by Steve’s lapel. “I think she’s the only person left who doesn’t know what I’ve been up to.” 

Steve tries to stop grinning, but he can’t. “What’ll you tell her?” 

“That I’ve gone and lost my head over a foolish American.” She unbuttons her mitten and threads her fingers through his, and they start walking, just like real sweethearts. 

_And we’ll have time for things like wedding rings…_

“You can tell her that he’s crazy about you too,” he offers. “If that’ll help.” 

She beams, and stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then scrubs the spot with her thumb. “You’d better wipe your face when you get back to your tent. You look as though you’ve been mauled by a pack of roving maneaters.” 

“Nah. Just one.” 

She swats his arm. 

“After we trade chairs, I should go and find out where Bucky ended up.” 

Peggy bites her lip. “Steve... I do have a confession to make.” 

Steve braces himself for the worst and says, “Shoot.” 

“One of the performers from the show happens to be a friend of mine. I asked her to delay him until after nine.” 

He looks down at her in stunned wonder. This whole time, he’s been thinking that the next move was his, only to discover that Peggy has had him checkmated all along. 

“I didn’t know if we’d get another chance to be alone,” she adds, slightly defensive. 

He gives her hand a squeeze. “Are you saying you’d take fifteen minutes alone with me over forty dollars?” 

“When you put it like that, I suppose the clever thing to have done would be to follow through with the plan. We might have pooled our winnings, and had a whole night at the Savoy.” 

The implication of that, _a whole night_ , makes Steve a little light-headed. 

He pictures dinner, drinks, and dancing, ready smiles and easy touches. 

And later, a locked door, a real bed with crisp sheets and plush feather pillows, and Peggy, husky-voiced, curls undone, powerful and soft under his hands. He’d lay her down and undress her, slowly, and then he’d make good on his promise to kiss her all over. 

And then, afterwards—curling up together, whispering in the dark and quiet, drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms. 

If they could have that, one whole night, he wouldn’t mind waiting until after the war for the rest. 

Taking his silence for hesitation, she asks, “Too much?” 

“No. But are you sure it’s not too much for _you_?” He grins cheekily. “I mean, it didn’t take me very long to get you to…” There’s no word or gesture he can think of that isn’t vulgar. “You know.” 

“Oh, darling.” There’s a wicked lilt to her laugh, and Steve thinks he could get used to this, to being Peggy Carter’s darling. “You do have an awful lot to learn.” 

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The story about Peggy's capture is partly cribbed from Elizabeth Wein's _Code Name Verity_. I'm not going to say anything more about it because it's amazing and should be experienced rather than described.
> 
>  
> 
> **References:**
> 
>  
> 
> French 75: [the cannon](https://warfarehistorynetwork.com/daily/military-history/military-weapons-the-french-75mm-cannon/) | [the drink](https://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2011/03/french-75-cocktial-gin-champagne-lemon.html)
> 
> KP, or Kitchen Police duty, is exactly what it sounds like: cleaning and prep work in the kitchen. Normally everyone gets assigned to KP on a routine basis, but officers may choose to assign it as a punishment, as Steve threatens to do here.
> 
> WAC = [Women's Army Corps](http://womenofwwii.com/army-wacs/).
> 
> Marksman’s mittens, also called trigger mittens, can be found in many of the pattern books devoted to WWII service knits. There are a number of variations, but the basic concept is that you’re able to quickly free your fingers if needed. If you’d like a pair, a good modern-day version of this pattern is [Knitty’s Broad Street Mittens](http://knitty.com/ISSUEfall02/PATTbroadstreet.html). 
> 
> [Stocking heels](http://www.vintagelingerieblog.com/vintage-inspired-lingerie/hosiery/the-different-stocking-heels-with-pictures/)
> 
> [Fry’s Peppermint Creams](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fry%27s_Chocolate_Cream). Hilariously, Rach and I both decided, independently, that these are Peggy's favourite chocolates!
> 
> “Jankers” is [a vernacular term for punishment for a minor offense](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jankers). The punishment usually involves restriction of privileges, and being made to perform unpleasant or repetitive tasks. In other words, the British equivalent to being put on KP. 
> 
> Steve and Peggy might not find an evening at [the Savoy](https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2011/oct/30/sex-politics-spying-londons-wartime-hotels) as romantic as one would hope - they’d likely be drawn into some kind of intrigue. (Sequel fodder?)


End file.
